Sunday Afternoon

I ate breakfast, got my run in, showered, went to the thrift store to get some clothes for the work week ahead, and drove home.  I nodded to the two folks in the street two doors down talking to someone parked on the curb.  I figured that it was a nice day for a family barbecue or a post-church service get together, since they seemed nicely dressed.

Mindlessly I went about my chores - laundry has to be finished, unpacking yet to be done, clothes to hang up.  I grabbed Grace's water bowl and went to the sink to fill it.  The window over the kitchen sink is open, and I heard loud screaming.  Thinking it was my imagination or dogs howling or kids playing, I filled the bowl up and turned off the water.  The screams continued, and this time I knew they were human.

I saw four black women dressed in their Sunday best, all standing on the front stoop looking across the street.  I looked too, and found the source of the screaming.  A woman in a pink blazer, a pink skirt, and candy striped pink high heel shoes was bent over double next to one of the parked cars, wailing in obvious grief and pain.  A man in a white shirt and black pants held her arms while she howled, patiently waiting for her to finish.  She slowly quieted down, and silently sobbed on the man's chest.

The man didn't pat her back or say soothing things to her, at least not that I could tell.  He simply held her while she poured out her grief for the world to hear.

Finally silent, she let the man guide her to the passenger side of the car, and they drove off.  The wailing though, continued, this time one of the four women who stood by watching on the stoop across the street.  As one of the other women comforted her, a little girl, three or four, danced around them not knowing that something of a tragic nature had just occurred.  A little boy, perhaps 6, joined her outside and looked up at the adult's faces, as if wanting to know what was wrong.  The women stared straight ahead, as if they couldn't bear the thought of explaining to a child that death had arrived in his life, and that he would forever after have to know that people would leave him.

The door to the house opened, and a white woman dressed in all white walked out carrying a bag.  Hospice nurse?  She walked straight to the car to put the bag away without saying anything to anyone outside.  She drove away, as if in defeat.

The mourners have started to arrive, shaking hands, hugging, or patting shoulders.  Is it a different protocol depending on the relation to the deceased I wonder?  Or is it how close you are to the person in mourning?  Now there are seven on the front stoop, with others weaving in and out from inside to the outdoors.

As I watched, tears welled in my eyes, and I so desperately wanted to go and ask if I could comfort them in some way.  But I knew I was not wanted or needed and could only be a silent observer to their grief.

I don't know these neighbors, so don't know if the person inside is a man or woman, old or young, alive or dead.  But pain is universal, and pain has visited this house two doors down from me.